by MARY HOCKING
‘Yeominster,’ Giles told him, ‘is dead in the morning and in the evening, and half-asleep in the day-time. The only life is provided by traffic trying to pass through, which will eventually choke the town to death while its inhabitants stand dumbly by.’ Gile’s pronouncements had become progressively more bitter since his father came home.
Daniel, although he had been away from the country for so long, knew the answer to the country’s transport problems: reinstate the railways, clean the canals, and cut the population by half. Giles regarded him with grudging admiration.
‘All very bracing,’ Dorothy said. ‘But hardly practicable.’
Bracing, he undoubtedly was, and if he could not solve the transport problem overnight, he worked a minor miracle. In the second week of his stay, Mrs. Prentice took up her bed and walked.
Erica was just coming out of the greengrocers’ when she saw her mother walking purposefully on the opposite side of the road. She was so convinced that exposure to the November air would be the death of her mother that she rushed across the road and narrowly missed death herself
‘I’m going to see what they’re doing to the cathedral,’ her mother said when Erica came panting up to her. She was wrapped up warmly and was obviously in full possession of her senses.
Old Mrs. Prentice was not in the least interested in scientific discoveries from which she could not hope to benefit, nor in the future structure of a society of which she did not expect to be a member for much longer. She had, however, always liked a vigorous male and Daniel’s return had given a certain spice to life which had long been missing. She thought they were making a mess of the restoration of the cathedral and enjoyed talking to Canon Peverell who agreed with her.
‘Now that you are getting about again, why don’t you do some voluntary work, Mother?’ Erica asked her when she returned.
‘They don’t want me, dear.’ Mrs. Prentice had no intention of being directed into some dull occupation which her daughter thought would be good for her. ‘I’m too old. People aren’t interested in old people.’ She patted her lips with a handkerchief and said, ‘I didn’t like that tapestry at all. It’s quite upset me.’ She went up to her room and wrote a letter to the local paper about the tapestry, pointing out that she had been one of the contributors to the restoration fund (she had given fifty pence) and felt she should have been consulted.
Things continued well for another week. Erica was sufficiently confident to arrange a dinner-party. Daniel was unaware of the work which was being done by local conservation societies and she felt it might be instructive for him to meet Harry Clare.
‘You mean it will be instructive for Harry to meet Daniel?’ Dorothy said.
‘That’s what I said, didn’t I? Really, Dorothy, you seem very irritable lately. Nothing is right for you.’
Later, Mrs. Prentice said to Dorothy, ‘I suppose I’m not invited.’
‘I shouldn’t worry, if I were you. It’s going to be a very indigestible meal.’
At parties of any kind, Mrs. Prentice was as obstreperous as an attention-seeking child, complaining about the richness of the food and advising others not to eat it. She knew that she had little chance of persuading either of her daughters to allow her to perform on this occasion, so she concentrated her mind on the raison d’être instead of the menu.
‘What’s Erica up to, then?’
‘Harry is chairman of the conservation society.’
‘And you think that’s why she’s asked him?’
‘I think she thinks that’s why she’s asked him.’ Dorothy had a feeling that subconsciously Erica was sending out an SOS.
Mrs. Prentice smiled. ‘I think I’ll come and have a drink with you before the meal. She can’t object to that, can she?’
Dorothy felt sorry for Harry Clare. The children were aware of his friendship with their mother and often teased her about it; there was no harm in that, but Giles was possessive about his mother and Emma faithful to the memory of her absent father, and their laughter had tended to be malicious. Daniel’s attitude would undoubtedly make bad worse. He would see Harry as an interesting specimen—quiet country gentleman, civilised, cultured, unambitious, possibly valuable because nearly extinct. Over the years, Harry’s good sense and quiet humour had done much to sustain Erica; it seemed a poor reward that he should be held up to ridicule. Dorothy was reluctant to face the evening, and when it came she took a long time dressing, which annoyed Erica who had expected her to help in the kitchen. Harry had just arrived when she came out of her room. He was standing in the hall, being introduced to Daniel. Dorothy saw him as she came to the top of the stairs.
He was saying all the right things, easily and unemphatically: socially, he had perfect pitch. Daniel, in comparison, sounded a trifle raucous. He had, however, undoubtedly made an effort in honour of the occasion. He was wearing a dark lounge suit, but either it had never fitted him or his shape had changed since he last wore it; it hung loosely and was too short in the sleeve. His tie and collar showed signs of many unsuccessful encounters. Harry was impeccably dressed, but appeared to have made no effort. There was no need to have worried about him, he possessed all the attributes appropriate to his situation. Dorothy stepped forward to greet him.
‘It’s very good to see you,’ she said. Emma and Giles greeted him with rather less warmth. Daniel took orders for drinks and then said, ‘Good grief! I shall never remember all that. You wouldn’t all like sherry?’
‘Gives me heartburn, sherry,’ Mrs. Prentice said. ‘If there isn’t any Dubonnet . . .’
Erica said, ‘Of course there is, Mother! Giles, dear, help your father.’
Harry settled comfortably in his chair. In his view, a degree of eccentricity is a necessary leaven in any society: he prepared to enjoy Daniel. He was also amused, as conversation developed, to see the effect which Daniel’s presence had had on the members of the household. Verbal gymnastics had become very much the order of the day and the family were exhilarated – and a little feverishly flushed—by their labours. Harry allowed Daniel to talk, ignored Giles’s angry broadsides, and listened urbanely to Emma’s more vivacious barrage. One should always get the measure of a meeting before speaking oneself, was a maxim which had carried him successfully through many a difficult council meeting. He soon perceived that Daniel was master of his own subject, but politically naïve; he had been out of the country for several years and had very little idea about the climate of thought and even less about the machinery of government. But there was more to it than that. Daniel, Harry judged, would never be a political animal; he had all the idealist’s fine contempt for compromise and accommodation. Harry gently cradled his whisky glass in his hands.
‘This is all very fine and sweeping,’ he said. ‘But we have to make a start somewhere. You’re very critical, Giles. Where would you start? What specific changes would you make?’
‘Oh, don’t ask him that!’ Erica had hoped for light conversation before dinner.
Emma said impatiently, ‘Everything!’ and Giles said, ‘Revolution. It’s got beyond the stage where people can talk to one another to any purpose.’ He infused as much contempt as possible into this statement in the hope that Harry would take it personally; it was his experience that the only hope of penetrating the guard of the older generation was to be offensive.
Harry, who had won his spurs in a tougher debating school than this, said easily, ‘But you’re not going to get a revolution. Not in this country.’ It was impossible, looking at him sitting there, so casually assured, to doubt that he was right. This was his world they were talking about, it had been made to measure for him.
Giles muttered, ‘You should hear fellows talking at school.’
‘You should listen to people talking in the pub.’
‘What’s he want to go to a pub for?’ Mrs. Prentice hissed at Dorothy. ‘Plenty to drink in his own house, hasn’t he?’
‘Revolution,’ Giles said loftily, ‘is born in the mind of the intel
lectual.’
‘And he must carry it into the streets. Is he likely to succeed in Yeominster?’
‘Yeominster! Nowhere in the middle of nothing.’
‘But you’ll have to bring the revolution to Yeominster eventually, won’t you?’
‘Or so there used to be when Olwen was well,’ Mrs. Prentice said to Dorothy.
Giles looked bleakly into his glass. Revolution in Yeominster resolved itself into a confrontation not between the revolutionary and the reactionary, but between Giles Kerr and the Establishment, as represented by his dear mother and men like Harry Glare. In Yeominster, the enemy was invulnerable.
‘She was a lovely bride, Olwen,’ Mrs. Prentice recalled.
Dorothy was thinking that Harry was invulnerable. How strange she had never realised it before. He would survive because he would never risk failure. The thought flashed across her mind and was lost again. Beside her, Daniel bent down and pulled up one sock. ‘And what is your solution?’ he asked gruffly while he was thus engaged.
‘Concentrate on something positive. As you say, there are things that must be changed in our way of life. But it is no use sitting back and saying “sweep it all away”. One must make a start somewhere. In your terms, one must examine the parts of the system separately . . .’
Daniel whispered to Dorothy, ‘Should I pour another round of drinks?’ He was bored now that Harry was leading the debate.
‘I shouldn’t,’ Dorothy replied. ‘Erica will want to serve dinner soon.’
‘Things want livening up a bit.’ He yawned gracelessly and beat an impatient tattoo on the arm of the sofa. When Erica went into the kitchen, he followed her.
‘You must stay and entertain our guests,’ Erica told him.
‘There’s only one guest and he’s entertaining himself
‘But he’s running down without you there to sustain him with your breathless interest,’ Dorothy said, appearing in the doorway. ‘I’ll help Erica.’
‘If you want to be helpful,’ Erica said, ‘you can remind Mother that she wanted to watch that programme on Edwardian London.’
When they sat down to table, Harry said, ‘The one thing in which I am interested is conversation.’ He corrected this Freudian slip of the tongue and went on imperturbably, ‘I can’t reinstate the railway system, clean the canals, cut the population by half, but I can find what is proposed in the way of major road development in the south of England.’
‘And what is proposed?’ Daniel asked, restored to amiability by the prospect of food and wine.
It was not quite how Erica had envisaged her dinner party developing, with Harry using the condiments and the cheese knives to mark the salient features of the landscape, and no one appearing to notice the excellence of the casserole Italienne or the smoothness of the Valpolicella, but she was glad they were amusing themselves.
‘And here,’ Harry said, ‘we have Cissbury Ring . . .’ He moved the mustard forward, ‘and here is . . .’ He paused, pepper in readiness. ‘Now, where is north?’
‘Here.’ Daniel placed, the wine bottle dangerously near the edge of the table.
‘In that case . . .’ Harry re-sited the salt.
‘The trouble with you gentlemen,’ Dorothy said, moving the mustard to the south-west, ‘is that neither of you really knows the country. Daniel has been abroad for twelve years and Harry is fighting to conserve hills that his feet have not trod for some fifteen years.’
This was a challenge which could not go unanswered and she had to promise to take them for a walk on the Downs.
‘It went very well, didn’t you think?’ Erica said to Dorothy as they washed up afterwards. ‘Mother went upstairs without any fuss and Emma forgot to say that awful prayer about “remembering those less fortunate than ourselves when we eat this good food”.’ She put a plate on the rack. ‘And I did admire the way Harry behaved, didn’t you?’
‘A very smooth performance.’
‘Really, Dorothy! That sounded rather tart. Does no one please you?’
‘It would seem not.’
Harry telephoned the next day to say how much he had enjoyed the evening and to make arrangements for the proposed walk on the Downs. Erica said to Dorothy, ‘You know, I think he took to Daniel.’ For some reason which Dorothy could not understand, this seemed to give her pleasure.
The walk was fixed for the following Sunday afternoon. When the time came to set out, Erica announced that she would not join them. After two weeks of Daniel’s company, she was beginning to feel she had had enough stimulation. It was nice to be alone, not a sensation she usually enjoyed. She sat down in the morning-room to study the papers for the next meeting of the conservation society. She was vaguely pleased that Harry and Daniel were getting on well, and as it was her habit to see hopeful signs where she most needed hope, she had a rather muddled vision of them talking things over and deciding her future in a way that would solve all her troubles. For troubles she undoubtedly had. Things had gone well up to now, but nothing which had happened had altered the fact which she had first realised twelve years ago: she could not live with Daniel. As she began to doze, the papers sliding on to the floor, she prayed, as she had prayed then, ‘God, please let something happen.’ She went to sleep and dreamt that Harry and she were walking along a beach; he did not say anything, but the stones—it was a pebble beach – were the most brilliant colours and cut like the pieces in a mosaic, and she was so happy that she knew something wonderful was about to happen.
‘In Africa,’ Daniel said as they turned on to the footpath, ‘You can walk for a hundred miles without seeing a human habitation.’
‘I hope we aren’t going to walk a hundred miles,’ Harry said.
‘Seven,’ Dorothy told him.
‘Seven?’ Daniel sounded disappointed.
‘Seven!’ Harry had not bargained for this.
Nevertheless, at first he experienced a pleasant exhilaration. As the valley with its intricate townscape grew smaller and finally disappeared behind the shoulder of the hill, so his concern with immediate problems began to diminish and he forgot all about the Yeominster Conservation Society and the major road developments in the south of England. The years of benevolent slavery to accountancy slipped away, and he was a young man again, his vigour undiminished, his horizons not defined by the narrow limits of Yeominster society. All around him, the land rolled away with only an enclave of farm buildings here and there to establish a human presence among these ancient hills. The track they followed led them down a slope, sliding towards a stream which was full of boulders and pebbles, their sharp edges deceptively softened by the gentle ripple of water which was pleasant to watch but looked uninvitingly cold. They walked beside the stream for a short distance and then took another track which climbed steeply past a brush of trees with pale, spidery limbs, on towards a bare ridge. On all sides were great hummocks across the top of which the sun carved green swathes while below the land disappeared in dark hollows. There was a feeling of solitude that belongs to a winter landscape, the illusion that one had found a world of one’s own. Daniel, who had been unexpectedly silent, was moved to exclaim that he had forgotten that winter, too, could be beautiful: there was a precision about it which appealed to him, the extraneous pared away, no harsh dazzle of light, the colour pale but fine, the outlines stark. Nothing here to cramp the mind or tame the senses. Harry thought, ‘I should come up here more often.’ His nerves thrilled, his skin was aglow, and he saw in the spare winter beauty a promise that Harry Clare might still find the things in life which had eluded him. He paused, pleasantly short of breath, to watch larks flying up from the middle of a thicket like ashes blown in the wind. By his side, Dorothy watched, but refrained from comment. Harry looked at her rather as he might have studied an old master which has been cleaned and has come up startlingly fresh and clear. She wore a green anorak with a hood which framed a round, glowing face: a distinctive face, not just a nice apple-dumpling of a face, but something sharper . . . wa
s that the word? There was a challenge in the bright eyes, a hint of mischief in the smile. More than a touch of Robin Goodfellow here.
‘I think you are leading us a dance!’ he said. ‘You will walk us round and round until we have lost our bearings and then you will disappear.’
‘Once the sun sets, that wouldn’t be hard,’ she laughed, looking about her as though examining possible exits.
‘You couldn’t be so cruel?’ he inquired.
‘I wouldn’t count on that if I were you.’
‘You surprise me.’
‘That will do you no harm, Harry.’
He looked at her, really surprised now. She knows something about me, he thought with some misgivings; at some time, I have given myself away to her. People gave themselves away to him often enough, but he did not like to think the process might apply in reverse. What weakness had he revealed to Dorothy Prentice? Or was her remark a general comment on his life? Only a moment ago, he had been prepared to acknowledge that his had been a dull and unadventurous existence; he did not want his judgement confirmed.
‘We have a witch for companion!’ he called to Daniel, instinctively seeking protection by drawing in a third party. ‘She intends to transform us.’
‘Not Daniel,’ she said.
‘No? Why not Daniel?’
‘Daniel is one of us.’ Her tone was lightly mocking, but although it was Daniel whom she mocked, it was Harry who became uncomfortable. ‘Science had its beginning when people began to probe the unknown. I can’t touch Daniel. He is the lord of the universe, his spells are much stronger than mine.’
Harry said, ‘Mmmh . . .’ a little uneasily.
She was not quite the kind of woman he had thought her. Sensible . . . yes, he still supposed she was sensible. And reliable? Yes, to an extent, provided one knew exactly on what one was relying. But comfortable? No, she was not quite so comfortable a person as he had once thought her. There was even something a little wilful about her. She knew she had rattled him, and she was not sorry, nor would she try to appease him. She was walking beside him, laughing quite pleasantly, but without any indication of a wish to appease. There was something a little unwomanly, even hard, in her attitude. Harry believed that a woman should consider a man’s feelings.